"Go!"shouted the umpire.
Away sprang the Atalanta,and far behind her leaped the Algonquin,her oars bending like so many long Indian bows as their blades flashed through the water.
"A stern chase is a long chase,"especially when one craft is a great distance behind the other.It looked as if it would be impossible for the rear boat to overcome the odds against it.Of course the Algonquin kept gaining,but could it possibly gain enough?That was the question.As the boats got farther and farther away,it became more and more difficult to determine what change there was in the interval between them.But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at the amount of space which had been gained.It was clear that something like half the distance,four lengths,as nearly as could be estimated,had been made up in rowing the first three quarters of a mile.Could the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the race-course,they would be sure of winning.
The boats had turned the stake,and were coming in rapidly.Every minute the University boat was getting nearer the other.
"Go it,Quins!"shouted the students.
"Pull away,Lantas!"screamed the girls,who were crowding down to the edge of the water.
Nearer,--nearer,--the rear boat is pressing the other more and more closely,--a few more strokes,and they will be even,for there is but one length between them,and thirty rods will carry them to the line.
It looks desperate for the Atalantas.The bow oar of the Algonquin turns his head.He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke,as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence,--but a few ounces might turn the scale of victory.As he turned he got a glimpse of the stroke oar of the Atalanta.What a flash of loveliness it was!Her face was like the reddest of June roses,with the heat and the strain and the passion of expected triumph.The upper button of her close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with exertion,and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it.The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower,but he was human.The blade of his oar lingered in the water;a little more and he would have caught a crab,and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.
The boat,which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a Derby three-year-old,felt the slight check,and all her men bent more vigorously to their oars.The Atalantas saw the movement,and made a spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could.It was of no use.The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young maidens;only a few lengths remained to be rowed,and they would certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.
The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls'crew if she could not save them by some strategic device.
"Dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?"she whispered to herself,--for The Terror remembered her Virgil as she did everything else she ever studied.As she stooped,she lifted the handkerchief at her feet,and took from it a flaming bouquet.
"Look!"she cried,and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin.The captain of the University boat turned his head,and there was the lovely vision which had a moment before bewitched him.
The owner of all that loveliness must,he thought,have flung the bouquet.It was a challenge:how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it He was sure he could win the race now,and he would sweep past the line in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stem of his boat,proud as Van Tromp in the British channel with the broom at his mast-head.
He turned the boat's head a little by backing water.He came up with the floating flowers,and near enough to reach them.He stooped and snatched them up,with the loss perhaps of a second in all,--no more.
He felt sure of his victory.
How can one tell the story of the finish in cold-blooded preterites?
Are we not there ourselves?Are not our muscles straining with those of these sixteen young creatures,full of hot,fresh blood,their nerves all tingling like so many tight-strained harp-strings,all their life concentrating itself in this passionate moment of supreme effort?No!We are seeing,not telling about what somebody else once saw!
--The bow of the Algonquin passes the stern of the Atalanta!
--The bow of the Algonquin is on a level with the middle of the Atalanta!
--Three more lengths'rowing and the college crew will pass the girls!
--"Hurrah for the Quins!"The Algonquin ranges up alongside of the Atalanta!
"Through with her!"shouts the captain of the Algonquin.
"Now,girls!"shrieks the captain of the Atalanta.
They near the line,every rower straining desperately,almost madly.
--Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta's captain,and up flash its splintered fragments,as the stem of her boat springs past the line,eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin.
Hooraw for the Lantas!Hooraw for the Girls!Hooraw for the Institoot!shout a hundred voices.
"Hurrah for woman's rights and female suffrage!"pipes the small voice of The Terror,and there is loud laughing and cheering all round.
She had not studied her classical dictionary and her mythology for nothing."I have paid off one old score,"she said."Set down my damask roses against the golden apples of Hippomenes!"It was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the race to the Atalantas.
